


He’s a McGregor

by phalangewrites



Category: Peter Rabbit (2018)
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff and Angst, Gardens & Gardening, Meet-Cute, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 20:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14600934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangewrites/pseuds/phalangewrites
Summary: Bea's next door neighbour, Reader, can't help but fall for Thomas the moment he steps foot into her life. Too bad that life is complicated.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic? Purely self-indulgent. I love Domhnall Gleeson so much it's crazy. Yet, this fic is posted. On the internet. Where...he could see it. Hey, I like to live dangerously. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the fic!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bea are having tea, when a handsome stranger arrives next door to Bea's house.

Every Sunday, near religiously, you would always be at the farmer’s markets. Even the days when you felt a tad ill, or, the night before you had a fun night out at the pub with friends. It was a fact known around the town that, despite divine intervention, or perhaps the Queen herself, there was never anything in your life which could stop you from setting up your fresh produce stall at the farmer’s markets.

Your friend, Bea, would tease you whenever she had the chance about this. She was a painter – a quite good one, if anyone asked for your opinion – and lived in the cottage just beyond the little woods which separated her and the grumpy Mr. McGregor’s homes. But, despite being neighbours, and, friends for nigh five years, Bea was more like a sister to you than anything, and, together, you shared your love for the rabbits and the other creatures who lived in the woods.

Today, with cinnamon tea cakes made with your eggs and apples from the orchard, you sat on her cottage’s little balcony and enjoyed the silence of Saturday mornings in the company of one another, and a cup of Earl Grey. You were sure that if there were unexpected guests they would be aghast at the sight of two spinsters, sitting in the warmth of the English summer. You, with the dirt of your garden still under your fingernails, and she with the flecks of paint on her face.

But then again, there seemed to be visitors approaching on the driveway, and silently, you and Bea turned to one another as if to question whose visitors they were. Bea’s drastic chance to the country meant all her family were still in the metropolitan regions of England, and your family weren’t local, and scattered over the globe like indecisive dice.

“That’s a nice car,” you intoned.

The old Land Rover was only a nice car the person deciding it was nice or not was a someone who was interested in vintage cars, and since you were, it was one. It had to be from the early seventies and was a shade of military green which made you wonder had ever been a good colour for anything to be painted.

“It’s an old car,” Bea quirked her lip. “I’m not expecting any visitors…”

You shook your head. “Me neither.” With a sip of your tea, you added, “Must be someone for the late Mr. McGregor’s property. Maybe they’ll renovate it to be a halfway home or sell it for charity. Then something good’ll come from that horrid old man’s place.”

The both of you chuckled.

It was then the Land Rover pulled up before the McGregor house. From the car, stepped out a man; he was tall, in the way which made you wonder if all his limbs were long, or if it were just his legs. His hair was a dark shade of red which looked almost brown, and he wore a fancy suit like he had walked straight from the city, into his car, and somehow wound up here, up in the Lake District.

You and Bea shared a glance, and biting your lip, you took a deep sip of your tea. It was then your mobile phone took to vibrating upon the table beside your saucer, your screen lighting up with a reminder that your rising dough was ready to be baked.

“I’ll leave you to this handsome stranger,” you set your teacup down, gathering your things. Bea sighed, and doing the same, the both of you made to clear the table before you went on your merry way to bake bread. “Be nice,” you remind her, setting the teapot beside her sink.

But when you exit her front door, you catch the eye of the newcomer, whoever he is. Despite the fact he’s as stiff as a beanpole and as frowny as a barn owl, you give him a small wave, and, take the trail through the woods to your awaiting dough.

* * *

You wake two hours before sunrise, and pulling on your big galoshes, you begin the task you do every Sunday morning. Harvest. It’s a lovely thing, really – you spend the week coercing your tomatoes to blossom from verdant to rosy, nurturing your cauliflowers to become the size of dinner plates. Not everything is harvested every week; you’re still waiting for your squash to ripen, and your thyme is still not mature enough. You feel almost like an eccentric witch when you harvest for the markets in the morning. A gardening witch, you’d be, the sort children read about in fairy-tale books. Then again, if someone came to steal anything, you’d never ask for their firstborn in a million years (you very much preferred to sleep through the night, thank you very much).

Soon enough, your produce is washed, loaded into the back seat of your 1979 Volkswagen Beatle, and just as the sunrise stains the tops of the trees and the world around, you’ve washed the dirt from yourself, and are dressed and ready to go to the markets. When you park, you’re soon seeing familiar faces; Betsy from the library selling preloved books, Mr. Johns’ miscellaneous trinkets, Mrs. Zawadzcy has her potted plants on display.

“Morning, __________,” Betsy gives you a wave from behind her table. “Ooh, your vegetables are looking quite lovely today!”

You wave her off. “They look quite lovely every day, Betsy,” you chuckle, toting the box of potatoes onto your designated trestle table. “How about the books, any nice titles you’ve got there?”

“Oh, nothing good,” She shrugs, and giving a big sigh, adds, “The kids these days only want to read longwinded romances between people who’ll never be together.”

You thank her, moving your produce around in a sort of display. “and how about your book? How’s writing going?”

Betsy laughs.

Sundays are often fast, perhaps because you’re focused on selling your vegetables, or, because there isn’t a way to tell the time other than the distant _bong_ of the town clock, or the cries of tired toddlers. But today, when the sun was high enough to be in your eyes, you saw Bea approaching hurriedly, her jacket buttons mismatched, hair awry.

When she made it to your table, you raised an eyebrow. “You look like you saw the gatekeeper of Hades, Bea.” You chuckle, giving Mrs. Zawadzcy’s nieces a wave as they walked by. When your friend did not laugh it off, you frowned. “Is everything alright?”

She gaped. “ _Alright_? No! The man, from yesterday, you remember him?”

“We watched him,” you nod, wrapping up Mr. John’s usual order of carrots in brown paper. As you exchanged produce for coin, you added, “He drove in a terribly old Land Rover, how can’t I?”

Bea gave an exasperated shudder. “Yes, well, he’s a McGregor.”

You paused. Remembering that you had thought he had Bean handsome, you blanched. You were a lovely person, whom mostly everyone labelled as kind, or forgiving. But there was one – no, two, people in this world who deserved no forgiveness; whoever decided to kill off Eccleston’s rendition in _Doctor Who_ after a single season, and Mr. McGregor.

“Oh,” you replied.

She nods. “ _Oh,_ is just about right, __________!” Bea runs a hand through her wild hair, and adds, “He comes into town as if he’s Bean here all this time and demands – _demands!_ – that I keep the rabbits away from his property!”

“Sounds like a real prick to me,” you intone.

Bea agrees, and navigating her way around the trestle table, throws herself into your arms. With a sigh, you console your neighbour and confidant. You know just how much she disliked the old Mr. McGregor – you both shared that passion fervently – and you know just how much she loved the rabbits who lived around the woods between both of your houses. She’d even named them; little Peter was her favourite.

“Hey, why don’t you send the bunnies my way, until he cools off?” You suggest, withdrawing from the embrace. “I’ll leave my gate open, too; I’m sure they’ll think they’re in heaven.”


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Thomas finally properly meet, even if it is in an odd fashion.

The first time you find yourself speaking to new Mr. McGregor, you’re in your bathers, trying to get beetroot stains out of your favourite blouse in the creek that runs between all three houses. Normally, you would be fine to be spotted in your swimsuit, but, it’s a terribly cold morning, and you’re wearing a haggard old woollen jumper as you do the task as to not die of pneumonia. And, then, add the tall, mysterious new neighbour to the scene, and your face is flushed with embarrassment.

“Morning,” you wave to him, your hand clutching a bar of laundry soap.

He frowns, pausing mid-step to focus, “What _are_ you doing?”

You show him the blouse. “Beetroot stain. I’m too stubborn to throw my shirt away, and too stingy to go to town to pay hard-earned quid for a washing machine.” You huff playfully, and pushing your hair back, go back to the chore of blotting the blouse. “Oh, and I’m your other neighbour, too, I’m __________.” You explain. “Not just some village weirdo who’s washing clothes in the creek.”

He nods, putting his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m Thomas. Thomas McGregor.”

You grin, understanding. You weren’t sure when Bea said ‘ _He’s a McGregor_ ’ she meant he was a relative, or even alike in spirit, but, it seemed he was both. “Ah, that explains the changes you’ve done to the garden,” you say, gesturing to the garden’s walls.

Thomas hums. From his pocket, you hear his car keys rattle, as if he’s wondering whether to leave the terribly awkward conversation between the both of you and go off to do better things. But instead of bidding adieu, he surprises you.

“You can use my laundry, if you like,” he suggests.

“Really?” you wonder.

You’re unsure if you’re incredulous, or just shocked. The other McGregor used to call you a ‘Spinster Wench’ – a direct quotation! – and every year would grow the larger pumpkin at the local fair’s competition. He was a bitter man, intolerable and bitter. You’re not sure why you expected _this_ McGregor to be the same, and yet, he’s being nice.

“I mean, until yours is able to be fixed,” he adds hastily. A digital tone sounds from his pocket, and the moment is broken. Checking his phone, he makes a face, and goes off toward his car. “Sorry, got to dash.”

“It was nice meeting you, Thomas!” You call after him as he climbs into his Land Rover.

He drives off, down the driveway, and at the end, takes the turn toward town. It’s not until an icy breeze from the heavens above goes through your bones that you remember you’re dressed less than favourably for October. Coming to your senses, you gather your things and rush home.

When you’re inside, you throw your wet clothes into the kitchen sink. It’s then you dash toward the bathroom adjacent to your bedroom, and spinning the bathtub’s tap on so fast, you’re not sure why the knob doesn’t spin right off and hit your head.

It’s then, standing in the bathroom, amid the slowly-heating steam and the crudely self-painted walls, you feel a sting, a reminder. You don’t acknowledge this feeling until your whole body is immerged under the terrifically hot water, when your hair is wet, ears full of water, and eyes closed.

You’re lonely.

Your parents had been so happy in your childhood memories; those sepia-toned mind-pictures were the stuff of dreams. But that was just it; they were dreams, and children knew nothing about adults, and adults were sometimes only playing pretend romance when they were really seething in sadness and regret. Your mother left when you were twelve, moving to Santorini with a brand-new girlfriend and a half-dozen dogs and communicated in post-cards, and your father went when you were old enough to live alone, and took to New Zealand, and married into a blended family.

Maybe they’re why you’re alone, trying not to fall into the same trap of it all. _Why_ you’re reminded of your shortcomings when meet the new neighbour, you’re not sure, but, your heart beats faster at just the thought of him.

Your lips breach the surface of the bathwater, and taking a deep breath in, you replace it with a sigh. With your bones thawed from the freezing autumnal coldness, you sit back, the warm water tumbling down your forehead, and smile to yourself, realising something so obvious.

You _like_ him.

* * *

It’s colder this morning, and while Bea’s away for the holidays to visit her family in the city, you’ve got the rabbits staying in the warm of your renovated atrium. You’re as much in love with the rabbits as Bea, treasuring them all so very much. It keeps them out of trouble; little Peter has been up to so much trouble lately, and you’re doing your all to wean the bunnies off the thrill of annoying Thomas.

You’re constantly seeing him; when you meet at the letterboxes, when you’re passing in the street with your reusable bags after your weekly trip to Tesco, or when you’re using his laundry still because you’re still not able to afford a new washing machine. Every time you share words, you fervently defending the local wildlife against his raging distaste for it, and all the while, you’re doing your best to hide the blossoming feelings you have for him.

When you find out he’s got no plans for Christmas, you blink. Surely a man like himself isn’t going to be spending the day alone, yet, he plans to.

“You can’t be alone for Christmas,” you shake your head in disbelief, looking to him as you filch your mailbox of its contents. “Even _Harry Potter_ had a proper Christmas in book one, and he had no family!” you protest.

Thomas frowns. “I’ve never read _Harry Potter_ ,” he says, and adds, “and I like Christmas alone.”

At this, you throw your hands in the air. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that. It’s just not the __________ family way.” You sigh, and tucking your bills beneath your armpit, you add, “You’re having Christmas lunch with me.”

He raises a single eyebrow, and asks, “The __________ family way is to force people to socialise on Christmas?”

You shake your head. “My family haven’t really talked to me for years,” you laugh it off, and add, “The __________ family way is to avoid confrontation as long as possible, and then run away from it when it comes to you.”

He nods. “and you’re not like your family?”

You turn toward your car where it’s idling. If the car was a sentient object, you would expect it to be anxiously waiting for you to stop flirting with the _too-handsome-for-you_ man. As you walk away, you call over your shoulder, “Hell yeah!”

The day after, you let the bunnies into your garden during the warmest part of the day. During the colder months, you didn’t sell produce at the markets. It was harder to garden when the earth was colder than whatever cruel God had written your life’s fate. So, the rabbits were free to take what root vegetables they could want and turn the soil over with their searching paws.

It’s then when you hear footsteps tramping their way through the forest pathway, and glancing above the fence, you see Thomas. “Hey there, neighbour,” you smile, standing to greet your guest. “Let me guess, you’re here to excuse yourself from Christmas lunch?”

He shakes his head. “No, the opposite.” He gives you a small smile. “Just making sure what time you’ll want me over?”

“How about eleven?” you suggest. It’s then you feel Benjamin nuzzle against your ankle. With a smile, you pick him up, and hold him close to your chest. “If that suits you, that is.”

Instead of answering, he asks, “How can you stand those rabbits?”

You glance at Benjamin. His winter pudge is thick this year, and he snuggles into your hands further when your hot breath touches his exposed nose. With a small smile, you look to the other rabbits; Peter, Mopsy, Flopsy and Cottontail are all investigating your potatoes, sniffing at what exposed vine they can see.

“When I was very small, I had a rabbit. Her name was Brum.” you say softly. You notice the odd look on his face, and you add, “I really liked the show when I was little. Don’t judge me, I was eight.” You look down to Benjamin once more and give him a scratch behind his ears. “I had Brum for _years_ , honestly, but, she died the day before my parents told me they didn’t love each other anymore.”

You swallow, trying not to think of it. You’re a grown woman, and it has been years, and yet, it hurts still. Why does it hurt still?

“Anyway,” you take a deep breath, and bending, place Benjamin back upon the ground. “So, I’ll see you at eleven, next Tuesday?”

Thomas nods, and otherwise silent, he says, “See you next Tuesday.”


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end_ " **\- anonymous**.

There’s a _FOR SALE_ sign on the McGregor house not even half a week after the tree incident, and by the end of the week, Thomas has packed up and left without so much of a goodbye to any of you. Even the men in the hardware store in town who he got to know quite well say they miss him. But you saw him nigh every day, and you miss him more; more than perhaps you should or have ever let on to Bea.

But Bea can’t take living in your spare room much longer; it’s Bean months, and yet, she’s looking for a cheap place to live away from here. Any words you share aren’t enough to keep her, and anything you try and get anyone else to do isn’t enough; Betsy from the library can’t sway her, nor Mr. Johns or Mrs. Zawadzcy.

So, you do what you can only do; you let your best, and closest friend go.

You can’t stand to wave her off when the UBER arrives to take her to the train station, and instead, say your goodbyes at your gate, and take to pottering around your garden to take your mind from things. Your lettuce does need some love, and tending to it, you can’t help but think of all the _almosts_ that this past year has entailed.

You _almost_ bared your heart to Thomas.

You _almost_ fell too hard for him.

You _almost_ confessed to him about your feelings, in the months after Christmas.

You _almost_ miss him now.

When your watch beeps upon the hour, you’re reminded that Bea’s already on her way down the road. Saddened again, you almost don’t hear a voice calling your name, and leaves crunching under foot.  

But that’s when you glance up.

You’re met with the familiar head of dark auburn hair, those green eyes. His face is a little red, hair wild, yet, he’s as handsome as ever and your stomach ties itself in knots at the sight of him. Thomas approaches the other side of your fence, wearing a fancy coat, and in his hands, is a fist full of flowers.

“Hi, Thomas,” you breathe. “What –,”

“I had to come and make things right,” the words burst from his lips, the lower one wobbling. He holds the flowers to you, and adds, softly, “I’m sorry for everything, I’m such a prick.”

You blink, accepting the bouquet of flowers. You look at the flowers, noticing that they’re the same sort of wildflowers that grow in the woods between your house and his. “Thomas – I –,” you can’t form a sentence, taking to stammering instead, “What are you doing here?”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m stupid. Incredibly. It took me a year to realise that I’m a horrible person. I’ve come back, and I hope you don’t hate me, __________.”

You consider the hand-picked bouquet. “I could never hate you, Thomas.”

There’s a small smile on his face. “Let’s start over.” He says, quickly adds, “Hello, I’m Thomas McGregor. I’m incredibly stupid when it comes to realising my feelings, and I hate Harrods.”

You can’t help but giggle.  “Hello, Thomas, I’m __________. I distance myself from people because my parents were loveless assholes and I think I’ve loved you for a whole year.”

He eyes light up. “I don’t just think I love you, __________.” He says, leaning over the fence, closer and closer with every word. “I know I love you.”

You feel your fingers loosening around the flowers Thomas gave you, and on their own accord, your hands take the lapel of his fancy coat into your fists. In the moment, your body on autopilot, your lips are on his lips, your breath mingling with his breath, and for the first time in your life, you notice the absence of the sting you’ve always felt.

“I’m sorry, that was a bit forward of me –,” you mutter, breaking away.

But Thomas shakes his head. “__________, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he says. Standing straight once more, he adds, “But I meant to say, Bea’s not leaving, I’m using my inheritance to pay for the damages, and –,”

Over his shoulder, you see Bea giving you a big _thumb’s up_ , with a wide grin. Eyes back to Thomas, you all but growl, “Oh, shut up and kiss me again,” you say. “We’ve got a year to make up for.”

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me [ko-fi](https://www.ko-fi.com/M4M3P4NJ)?
> 
> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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